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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726745">Unpack My Heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt'>Monsterunderkilt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [49]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Shakespeare - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:40:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>My husbands help me understand Hamlet as well as myself, and Alan bakes us dessert</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [49]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Unpack My Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alright, you’ve almost got it, just add on that last chunk of lines and you’re golden,” Stephen says, giving me a thumbs-up.</p><p> </p><p>I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I let it out and drop my head between my knees. “Why did I pick one of the longest ones to do this week?”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen, sitting back on the living room sofa, scrolls back to the beginning of the passage from Act II of <em>Hamlet</em> on my iPad without looking up at me. “I don’t know, sweetie, you’re just masochistic like that. But this is a barn blazer. So much opportunity for expression!”</p><p> </p><p>I stand at attention again and begin to pace back and forth on the carpet, and Jon, lying reclined in his new chair, begins to snore a little. I roll my eyes and conjure my memory’s full strength to continue practicing with my fully conscious husband. I turn my back and begin. “<em>Now I am alone... Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I...”</em></p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Alan is in full baking regalia—frilly apron, chef’s hat, an obligatory smear of flour on his cheek—leaning against the oven while sipping a cocktail and reading a novel. He barely registers that the door leading to the garage opens only feet away from him. Sir, who has been out of the Manse all week for the start of filming a new series for the BBC, tip-toes inside, scanning to see if the coast is clear.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, hiya, Kenny,” Alan says casually before he takes a sip of his bright red beverage.</p><p> </p><p>Ken holds his finger to his lips. “Shhh, I’m trying to surprise her.”</p><p> </p><p>Alan winks and nods, then lowers his voice. “She’s trying to surprise you as well, mate. Been reciting that bloody Hamlet soliloquy for an hour.”</p><p> </p><p>Sir pauses to listen, hearing me practice from halfway across the house. He smiles. “Ahhh, one of my favorites, that.” He points at Alan and gives him an inquiring look. “What is that?”</p><p> </p><p>Alan tilts his head toward at the oven and smiles mischievously. “Banana bread.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, your tipple.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stanley Tucci Negroni.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh... How is that different from every other Negroni?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s made wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh VENGEANCE!</em>” I yell out from the living room. “<em>Why, what an ASS am I!</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Both Alan and Ken blink at each other.</p><p> </p><p>“You better be sneaky if you’re going in there,” Alan suggests. “Don’t want to throw her off her groove.”</p><p> </p><p>Sir nods, but then notices the cover of Alan’s novel. “Is that <em>Poldark</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Aye.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not <em>Outlander</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Alan scrunches his face and rolls his eyes. “What, do look like the most stereotypical Scotsman on the planet to you? Maybe I like the rugged romance of Cornwall better. It’s much warmer anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Sir bows in deference and backs out of the kitchen. “Point taken.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“This is most brave...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>that I, the son of a dear father murdered,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell</em>
</p><p>
  <em>must like a WHORE unpack my heart with WORDS!”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As I continue toward the final third of my speech, Ken surreptitiously relocates to the hall, where he can peek around the corner and watch me practice with Stephen. It’s the longest and most emotional of Hamlet’s four big soliloquies—full of wild turns of phrase and starts and stops that make it feel like natural speech, but that very aspect can also make it difficult to remember correctly. Luckily, I have Ken’s famous screen portrayal ingrained in my brain, which gives me a kind of framework on which to hang every string of words.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I’ll have grounds</em>
</p><p>
  <em>more relative than this—the play’s the thing</em>
</p><p>
  <em>wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Bravo!” Stephen says, opening his arms so I can fall into them, exhausted. He hugs me as we sink back into the sofa cushions and giggle with relief. “That was amazing, Madam. I don’t think I’ve ever understood Hamlet’s mental state so well until now.”</p><p> </p><p>I blush terrifically. “Oh please, I’m no actor. You could even do better if you tried.”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen shakes his head. “Nope. I would butcher it, for sure. I’m only fit to be one of the gravediggers, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d kill to see you do that scene, Stephen!”</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, a hearty round of clapping comes from the hall and Sir steps forwards out of the shadows, grinning like the day is long. “Astounding, Madam Missus! A performance fit for a queen.”</p><p> </p><p>My face heats up as if I’ve just shoved it in an oven. I’m sure it’s a lovely shade of acerola as well. “Oh shit,” I say under my breath, mortified more than I could have predicted. “I wasn’t ready for you to see that,” I say, burying my face into Stephen’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Ken walks over and sits down next to us, taking one of my hands in both of his. “As an actor and director myself, I’m being completely honest, darling. I know how much <em>Hamlet</em> means to you, and besides, you’ve done a mess of them for me already anyway, why should this one be an exception?”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen kisses my forehead. “Yes, Madam, you did a fine job. Sir Shakespeare here himself says so.”</p><p> </p><p>I take a deep breath and look up, first at the soft expression of dear Stephen, then I finally meet Ken’s proud gaze. I feel tears well up.</p><p> </p><p>Ken nods slowly. “It’s because you <em>performed</em> it this time.”</p><p> </p><p>I nod quickly. “I usually just recite,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “Performance is not my forte. I cannot hold a candle to you or anyone in that arena.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you know Hamlet as well or better than most anyone. You get him. I’m proud of you for donning the mantle this time and letting him flow through you.” Ken winks at me, rubbing my hand warmly. “It’s quite stimulating, is it not?”</p><p> </p><p>I blush again, but I smile now. “Yes, actually, you’re right.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing quite like being old William’s conduit for a bit. It’s like electricity. I recommend everyone give it a go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps I should give the gravedigger a go then,” Stephen adds.</p><p> </p><p>I kiss Stephen’s cheek, then his lips. “You’d be perfect.” I turn to Ken and throw my arms around him, tackling him with all my insignificant weight, and proceed to squeeze the bejesus out of him.</p><p> </p><p>Just then, the kitchen timer dings.</p><p> </p><p>“The bread is done!” Alan announces loudly.</p><p> </p><p>Jon snorts himself awake at the sound, rubbing his eyes and blinking at us. “Oh, Sir, you’re back! Madam was just practicing a thing for you—“</p><p> </p><p>“He saw it, Jon,” I say, laughing. “He approves.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad, because you worked very hard and it shows.”</p><p> </p><p>“You fell asleep half an hour ago,” Stephen says.</p><p> </p><p>“I was resting my eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Alan!” I yell.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Madam?”</p><p> </p><p>“Can I get a Negroni while we’re waiting for that bread to cool?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you say the magic word!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh shit, oh god.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not it!”</p><p> </p><p>I sigh heavily and stare into Ken’s eyes. “I can’t pronounce it, can you?”</p><p> </p><p>He licks his lips and holds up a finger. “<em>Honorificabilitudinitatibus</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“YES! That’s it!”</p>
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